


Song of Solomon

by whichstiel



Series: Season 13 Codas [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Dreams, Episode: s13e02 The Rising Son, Longing, M/M, Pining, Season/Series 13, episode coda, spn 13x02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2019-01-20 11:07:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12431496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whichstiel/pseuds/whichstiel
Summary: Dean dreams about Castiel.





	Song of Solomon

_ On my bed at night I sought him _

****_ whom my soul loves- _

_ I sought him but I did not find him. _

The spice shop was redolent with the scent of sweet clove, warm apple cider, and the tangy fog of dried leaves. It smelled heavenly - the kind of place that brought on fantasies of yellow curries and sweetly spiced apple pie cooling on countertops. It was also haunted. Dean gripped the shotgun a little tighter, shaking himself back to full awareness. According to the owner, the shop was sabotaged nightly. She arrived every morning to broken jars throughout the store and ectoplasm streaked across the picture window like tears, like someone pressed their face against it nightly and wept. Until a customer had been injured “and blabbed to the press” - she’d told them, lips pursed - she’d simply endured the attacks. 

So far, with Dean, Sam, and Jack prowling the store, everything was quiet. Calm. Sam and Jack were checking in the back, trying to find any remnant or evidence of a false wall or floorboard that might be harboring remains. Dean ran his tongue over his teeth and winced at the fuzz. He’d insisted on heading straight into the hunt as soon as they’d made contact with the owner earlier in the day. Maybe afterwards he could find a truck stop with showers and a little privacy, and take a little time to feel human again. Sam and Jack could sleep in the car the rest of the night and they could press onward to investigate some possible ghoul activity the next state over. He picked up a glass jar labeled “Grains of Paradise” and rattled it. The contents jangled pleasingly and he smiled a little at it and shifted the shotgun to the crook of his arm so he could untwist the cap and take a quick sniff. Of course, that’s when it struck.

Glass shattered around him as Dean went down in between the shelves. He immediately rolled to his back and caught a glimpse of a specter darting away through the shelves. “Sam!” he yelled, scrambling to his feet. The shelves of the shop were low, barely five feet, and Dean raised his shotgun and fired one clean shot at the ghost making its way through the store. The ghost flung out its hands with a wail and disappeared in a flash of white.

Sam stumbled in from the back, Jack close on his heels. “Dean?” Sam said, looking around wildly. “Where?”

Dean shook his head grimly. “Headed for that wall,” he said, loading another bullet into the chamber. Together they stalked the shelves towards a kitschy collection of knick knacks nailed to the far wall. The entire back end of the shop was plastered in tacked on mid-century tinwork and dusty black frames. Dean scanned it rapidly before zeroing in on the culprit. “Yahtzee,” he said grimly, pointing at a photo mounted above a faded Coca-Cola sign. Hanging on the wall was a photo of a young man, mouth drawn into a sly half smile. A lock of hair was tied with a delicate piece of embroidery floss and plastered between the photo and the glass. Dean reached for the picture frame.

The ghost howled again with all the rage of a hurricane and Dean watched Sam and Jack get hurtled across the room, smashing rotund glass jars and decorative crystal work as they went. Dean grabbed for the photo, dropping his shotgun so he could use both hands to pry up the photo from the wall while the ghost was occupied with Sam and Jack. Sam hit the wall hard, and fell with a sharp thud onto the floor. He lay crumpled, still, and Dean grimaced. Jack had promised not to use his powers. Even so, he stood between Sam and the ghost. Although his eyes didn’t glow, his face was drawn in a grim expression akin to hate. He held Sam’s shotgun in his hands.  _ Blam _ . The ghost disappeared. 

Dean pressed his boot into the wall and tightened his grip on the frame, working it off the solid pegs spearing it to the wall. The frame burst free just as the ghost attacked again and the picture flew out of his hands and crashed to the floor below. The ghost tossed him towards the ceiling before he could protect himself and hot, white sparks jumped into his vision. Dean soon found himself tossed right on top of it by the ghost’s angry push and he shuffled his bloody hands around him until his fingers met the dusty thick paper. He slid it out and fumbled for the lock of hair, then fished a shell from his pocket. He broke open the shell and scattered salt before him so that it bounced out like hail across the tiled floor. Then he pulled out his lighter, squinted up at the inhuman face rushing towards him, and lit the remnants on fire. The ghost burned through one last scream and then the shop fell quiet. 

Dean groaned and let his forehead fall to the floor where it crunched against glass. “Sam?” he called.

“He’s okay,” Jack said from across the store. “He’ll be fine.” 

“‘Kay.” Dean closed his eyes for a moment - just a moment - and inhaled slowly to chase the sparks from his head. Even with his face pressed to tile, the shop’s sweet perfume permeated his senses. The floor smelled like spice and dust, heated by his breath. He wondered in his addled haze if this was what Castiel had described to him, long ago. 

When Castiel had wings he used to travel for unusual ingredients in the blink of an eye or the space of an hour. He’d spoken of a market once, sweet with the scent of fresh fruit and the dust kicked up by people perusing the open air stalls. The town had smelled like mountain - minerals and pine - but once he was in the market the only thing he noticed was the thick cloud of harmonious spices. He’d spoken of this phenomenon with a crooked half smile, his eyes alight as though the concept of an edible symphony were entirely new to him. 

Blood tinged spit pooled on Dean’s lower lip brought him back to the shop. He spat, then pushed himself up. Dean grabbed his shotgun and went to check on Sam. And Jack.

His and Sam’s head injuries meant that they were stuck with a hotel room. They limped their way to a nearby motel and after short, cursory showers, collapsed for the night. 

Once the lights were out, pain pulled at Dean’s temple and he leaned against his bed with a groan. Jack and Sam had passed out fairly quickly. Jack, as it turned out, snored loudly and his chainsaw rattle filled the corner by the couch. Sam lay insensible under a pile of blankets, dead to Jack’s unwitting symphony. Dean reached for the bottle by the bed and took a long swig before dropping the condensation-wet glass to his pant leg. Another hunt down. Another day gone. Dean drank, and willed his mind to emptiness. 

When he finally fell asleep, he dreamed. He was walking in a bazaar fringed by deep green pines and gray-blue mountains. The stalls were brightly painted with cloth-clad canopies flapping in the stiff alpine breeze. Dean looked around. It was a small village, as far as he could tell. Just a collection of sparse cabins and temporary stalls lining a wide dirt path that cut through it all. Still, the market was thick with people. They milled from stall to stall, their conversational haggling capped at a muffled buzz. Many of them wore furs or brightly cut clothing dusted white at the hems. Something white caught Dean’s eye.

A crisp white shirt and wide shoulders wove through the crowd and was eclipsed a moment later by a raucous man carrying a basket of melons on his head. “Cas?” Dean croaked. A white-clad arm appeared and then the tousle-haired man crossed the market to a stall on the other side, where he disappeared yet again. Dean pushed his way around a gaggle of men crowded around a dice game and shoved his way past two women with swords strapped high on their shoulders.

Just ahead of him Castiel’s hand slipped over sunny squashes lined up in a neat row. His fingers brushed along petals from a stand of cut flowers and then he disappeared again, this time behind a crowd of school children portaging wooden boxes over their heads. 

Dean ran towards the stall where he’d last seen Castiel and an old man popped out from behind the flowers. He pushed a small glass cup under Dean’s nose, brown eyes steely. “Drink,” he ordered. Dean bit his lip and craned his head around. He’d lost Castiel again. 

Irritably, Dean snatched the cup and drank it down quickly, like taking a shot. The liquid lingered on his lips, sweet but bitter, and his tongue darted out to taste it even after he’d shoved the cup back at the old man and pushed past him.  _ Pomegranate juice, _ he thought. A drop of it clung jewel-bright on his lip and he caught sight of Castiel again. This time he stood across the bazaar, his nose buried in an uncapped basket, a look of bliss painting his face rosy. 

“Cas!” Dean called out again. This time, a woman blocked his way. She thrust a crystal vial at him. An ornate golden air pump capped the top of it and he looked at the perfume bottle, puzzled. “What’s this for?”

“So you can keep his name,” she said. 

He bit his lip again. Castiel was already moving on. Dean nodded curtly and snatched the bottle from her, sweeping around her side. She grabbed him swiftly, fingers cutting into the crook of his arm like talons. 

“Don’t lose him this time,” she hissed.

 

_ See! He is standing behind our wall, _

_ gazing through the windows, _

_ peering through the lattices. _

Castiel stood at the window as lightning illuminated his rain drenched face. He looked hangdog, worn down. It was the sweetest sight Dean had ever seen. Dean sprang up out of bed and ran to the motel window, pressing his hands against the glass. Slowly, his expression unchanging, Castiel faded away into the black night beyond.

In his sleep, Dean twitched then turned over. 

The orchard filled the sky overhead. Sweeping bows of apple-heavy branches blotted out the egg-blue sky, casting the ground beneath the trees in soft gray shadow. Dean held a gun in his hand. The old god was behind one of these trees. Gun oil cut into the sweet apple-scented air and the stench of woodsmoke clung to Dean’s clothing. His lip curled.

Then the gun disappeared and his hand closed on air. Something wet touched his palm and he peered at it. A single golden drop of honey, bright as the sun, glimmered on the end of one fingertip. Dean stared at it dumbly for several seconds and then carefully he extended the finger all the way and closed the rest of his fingers into his palm. He paced carefully through the ankle-tangling grass, balancing the bead of honey as he went. 

His dark head bowed, Castiel sat under an apple tree, legs folded beneath him. He looked up when Dean approached and grinned so widely that Dean nearly stumbled with rib-splitting relief. Bees circled Castiel like electrons around a nucleus. “Do you have it?” he asked, voice soft and rough and perfect.

Dean held out his finger and bent his knees, so that his hand drew level with Castiel. Castiel’s mouth dropped open and he leaned forward to meet Dean, then closed his lips around Dean’s first knuckle. His tongue cradled the underside of Dean’s finger as he sucked the honey from his hand. When he finished, Castiel’s tongue pushed against his skin and he pulled back with a sound almost like a kiss. 

“It’s not enough,” he whispered. His face fell into sorrowful lines and Dean hung his head in despair.

Dean woke up with a pounding headache. He padded into the bunker kitchen, flicked on the lights, and barreled straight for the refrigerator. Beer populated a third of the fridge and he shot out his hand to grab one, changed his mind and shifted his hand to the handle of a six pack, before he dropped his hand again. A loose bag of apples sat on the bottom shelf. Dean hesitated, then reached for one of the red globes. He pulled it out and cradled it to him, curling his palm inwards as though protecting the apple with his wrist. He grabbed the six pack then, and retreated back to his room. 

 

 _The watchmen_ _found me,_

_ as they made their rounds in the city; _

_ They beat me, they wounded me, _

_ they tore off my mantle, _

_ the watchmen of the walls. _

The angels accosted them at a gas station in one of the lonelier stretches of Nevada highway. Dean had already dispatched one. Off by the store, Sam fought off two others, whirling like a sand storm, his hand a blur of flesh and steel. An angel tackled Jack and angled her blade towards him with a pleased grin. Although Dean knew the blade would do nothing he stabbed his own blade through the angel who had tried to pin him against the Impala, then rolled towards Jack. He lunged for the angel blade, knocked away the attacking angel’s hand and used his momentum to drag the angel off to the side to fight him instead.

This close, the angel’s breath fell hot across his face and Dean ground his teeth and tightened his sweat-slick fingers around the hilt. He levered his arm to thrust the blade into the angel’s side when the woman reached out and caught at it. She grinned at him, blood dripping from a slash on her cheek onto Dean’s lips. He spat, then grinned back and knocked the blade a fraction of an inch, dislodging her sure grasp. The blade drove into her, and she dissolved into light. 

Later, the bar near the hotel served them shots - Sam’s treat. Dean lifted the glass to his cut lip and let the liquid splash inside. He winced.  _ Pomegranate. _ “It’s not enough,” he growled, and lifted his fingers to signal for more. 

 

 _Set me as a seal_ _upon your heart,_

_ as a seal upon your arm; _

_ For Love is strong as Death, _

_ longing is fierce as Sheol. _

_ Its arrows are arrows of fire, _

_ flames of the divine. _

Castiel was back. One minute he was dead and the next - he was back. Dean leaned his hip against the map table, arms crossed in a faux casual repose, and struggled to lift the numb fog from his brain. Sam and Castiel stood over the library table, a great sheet spread across it. Castiel was scribbling Enochian glyphs over it, Sam nodding over his work with a pleased expression on his face. Jack lingered in the background, his eyes still saucer wide and fixed upon Castiel. 

It was almost like he’d never left. 

Sam and Castiel worked together, a seamless team, hashing out a new defense strategy to protect Jack from the constant depredations of angels and demons. Dean’s mind swam with the effort of reconciling this image.  _ This. _

It was only the sight of Castiel, weaving away from him through the pillars and past the shelves that hot fire jolted through Dean. He was struck with the sudden conviction that if he lost sight of Castiel now he would wake up in sweat-soaked bedclothes, alone. “Cas,” he burst out and Castiel stopped and turned, instantly. His head cocked to one side, brow furrowed.

“Dean?”

“Can we talk? For just a second.” Dean’s heart pounded heavily as though he stood atop a twelve thousand foot mountain peak and he could feel his lungs struggle for air. Tantalizingly, he thought for just a moment that he could smell a whiff of pine on the air. He cleared his throat and gestured towards the kitchen. 

“Of course.” Castiel dipped his head to Sam and Jack and followed Dean down the hallway to the small kitchen. 

Dean swung open the refrigerator door and pulled out two beers, tilting the butt of one bottle towards Castiel. “Beer?”

Castiel took it silently and flipped the cap off with his thumb as though flicking off a speck of dust. He settled on the bench and set the bottle on the table before leaning forward. “Dean,” he asked in a grave, puzzled tone. “What’s going on?”

Dean slipped off his own bottlecap and took a long swig. “Needed a break,” he said with a gasp between gulps. He set the bottle down, lining it up across from Castiel’s. He drummed his knuckles on the tabletop. “Seriously, man. How are you holdin’ up? Resurrection’s a tricky business and--”

Castiel held up his hand, a gentle smile fixed on his cheek and his eyes stern and calm. “I fought my own way out of The Empty, Dean,” he said. “I assure you, nothing followed me. I made no deals. We’re safe.” He folded his hands on the table and glanced down at Dean’s tension-white knuckles. “I’m safe.”

Dean blew out a breath. “Yeah. Yeah. Of course.” 

Castiel leaned forward. “Dean. Are you alright? You look…” He lifted a hand and gestured towards Dean’s face and the night black circles that had taken up permanent residence under Dean’s eyes. 

Dean took another long drink of his beer before he said, to the wall, “I dreamed about you while you were...gone.”

Castiel’s voice was soft when he said, “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.” Dean tried to grin, and turn the reply into something light, but his mouth refused and his voice broke. “I missed you,” he whispered to the stack of napkins against the wall. 

Fingers brushed his jaw and nudged his chin to the side until his eyes met Castiel’s. “I missed you, too,” Castiel said. “More than you might ever know.”

Dean sat frozen for a moment, Castiel’s warm fingertips pressed spots of sunshine into his jaw. Then he lifted his hand and wrapped his own fingers around Castiel’s palm. He dipped his head so that his nose grazed along Castiel’s knuckles. His skin smelled like rich black loam overlaid with something floral, like sweet honeysuckle. The kitchen was utterly silent, Sam and Jack’s voices only dull echoes through the bunker’s thick walls. 

Castiel’s fingers wrapped around Dean’s hand, fingertips pressing against Dean’s skin and brushing the top of his lip in tiny, almost imperceptible brushstrokes. It was only a fraction of an inch to move and, bolstered by the quiet bubble of unreality he’d been engulfed in most of the day, Dean raised his chin just a little more. His lips caught at Castiel’s first knuckle and he pressed them there, flicking his eyes up to catch Castiel’s expression.

Castiel watched him with widened eyes, a rose flush skimming his cheeks. “Dean,” he mouthed, barely loud enough to qualify as a whisper. Castiel watched him, but he didn’t pull away. If anything, he seemed to press the lines of his finger further into the cushion of Dean’s lips and Dean returned the pressure. 

They stared across the table at one another. 

When Dean finally pulled his head back, Castiel’s hand remained in his. Dean quirked a smile at him and lifted one shoulder in a fraction of a shrug. “I missed you,” he said again. 

When Castiel grinned, it was like the sun coming out. “I’m beginning to understand that,” he said and leaned all the way across the table, so their lips could meet at last.

**Author's Note:**

> Poem excerpts blocking off the sections are from the Song of Solomon.
> 
> Thanks for reading! I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/whichstiel) and [Tumblr](http://whichstiel.tumblr.com/) @ whichstiel. You may also like the Supernatural recap and gif blog I co-write/curate, [Shirtless Sammy](https://shirtlesssammy.tumblr.com/).


End file.
